


Taste

by buttheyrebrothers



Series: 5 senses [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean, Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4241382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttheyrebrothers/pseuds/buttheyrebrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean remembers every moment of his time as a demon, every damn second.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste

**Author's Note:**

> First part of a 5 ficlet series featuring our five senses.

Dean remembers every moment of his time as a demon, every damn second. Every thought, every feeling, every word spoken. Every hurt dealt out, accusations carved into Sam’s heart with jagged shards and bloody claws. He had sunken his teeth in his brother’s soul and ripped out torn shreds just to spit them in Sam’s face again. And now that it is over and his still tarnished soul is at least rid of the blackness in his eyes all he can feel is shame, the taste in his mouth turned to rotten ashes. 

He remembers the taste of beer and whiskey, alcohol burning in his throat without its soothing effects, not when he didn’t needed it anymore. The carelessness had been a gift at that moment, all the pain and guilt and regret washed away by something stronger than bottled poison. He should’ve known it would come with a price, peace was never meant for him, hope a letter never sent. 

He remembers the taste of women on his lips, their heady slick on his tongue and their moans swallowed by his throat. It had been so easy to lose himself in bodily pleasure when his insides had been empty, all the broken pieces swept out by black smoke. He hated himself for letting it sweep out hazel eyes and dimpled smiles as well, disappointment about his own failures a heavy weight to fill the emptiness.

He remembers the taste of blood lust, violence burning in his veins and murder sharpening his teeth. There was enough weakness left to seek out more deserving victims to satisfy this need but not enough humanity in the weapon he had become to stop the useless death. His smile sharp like a shark’s who smelled spilled blood, the killing blow delivered with delight that had turned sour with another name he can now add to the pile of guilt he carries on his back. He is Atlas but his shoulders bear the weight of the damned instead.

He craves something to replace all these flavors from his mouth and can’t comprehend how there are suddenly greasy offerings on his bedside table when he opens his eyes for the first time after they regained their greenish tone permanently again. Of course this has to be Sam’s doing but his little brother’s reasoning is beyond Dean. So he does the only thing he can in this moment, to erase the traces of a monster inside of him and that is searching out the simple comfort of warm and tasty food. His starved body approves, reminder of the fact that demons don’t need to eat and his only nourishment had been of the liquid kind. But his mind denies him that same feeling of satisfaction, craving another taste than the salty goodness it receives. 

A hesitant knocking on his door shakes him out of his reverie. There in the door frame is Sam, the person he always swore to protect and who he has wounded more times than anything else in this world has ever dared. His body and soul full of scars and enough of them from Dean himself. He will never be able to pinpoint all the feelings and sensations his little brother causes him but right now the most prominent are horror at himself, thankfulness for Sam’s persistence and a love so deep he feels like drowning. If there was only one thing he could take back from his time as the very thing they hunt it would be all the ways he hurt the most important person in his life. But he can’t take it back, just like he couldn’t stop the fire, like he couldn’t stitch their lives back together after every blow they’ve taken. He is utterly useless and only waiting for Sam to deliver the final blow. Dean’s not sure if he can take Sam telling him to go but he also thinks it would be worse if he wants him to stay for all the wrong reasons. In his mouth is a tingling sensation like the feeling of an approaching thunderstorm, his atoms are shaking with the impending doom. It tastes like fear.

“Dean –“ Sam starts but the apprehension becomes too much to bear, he needs to get the words out before his final verdict is spoken.

“Sam – I’m so. I didn’t – . I can’t tell you – .” No words seem adequate, every sentence in the English language not enough to convey how he feels and how can he even expect Sam to want to hear them in the first place?

He didn’t realize he is trembling until Sam reaches out to still his shaking hands. His eyes are warm and kind, but cautious. Assessing. Dean wonders if he can see the growing fissures inside of him.

Sam always needed words, letters strung together like a lifeline, something to hold onto and save him from the fall. So Dean expects long declarations of logical reasons, excuses for Dean or maybe reprimands for letting Crowley play him like this. 

Instead there is a mouth but no talking. Only lips, pressing dryly on his, nibbling a bit to coax him out of his shock. He is not sure he deserves this but when a warm tongue enters his mouth he finally gets what his mind was craving all along. Sam is kissing him. It tastes like forgiveness.


End file.
